Without land based accommodations, except when nearby Ushuaia, starting any hike meant first boarding a Zodiac.
It is an impressive operation, without which we’d have been restricted to simply looking at amazing scenery from aboard the ship. The Zodiacs transformed the entire experience.
Meanwhile, back in Tiera del Fuego, there was an abundance of this fungus known by the European settlers as Indian Bread because the groups of native peoples who spent their lives in canoes kept masses of the fungus with them not only as food, but because it is a great source of water. We popped some and found they’re not bad. The canoe dwellers also kept a fire going in their canoes and, like their forest dwelling neighbors, almost always went naked, smearing themselves with fat for some bit of protection from the elements (the climate being more temperate than we supposed). As with the experience of native people almost everywhere, efforts to exterminate them were largely successful.
The vegetation was lush even in what seemed like the most inhospitable locations, what with the thin soil and ferocious winds, even on a gravel plain aside a glacial stream. Venturing into the forest was to be struck by the overwhelming richness of it all. There were numerous species of orchid and, most familiar to us, plentiful lichen thriving only in this abundance of clean fresh air. The one non-native plant shown here is the red sorrel, introduced for who knows what reason, as there’s nothing chooses to eat it, so if it must have a purpose, it’s to add its own touch of beauty.
The wallowing trudge up the 200 steps from the Zodiac landing and back down again had been well worth it as we looked forward to many more Zodiac excursions.
There are three ways to cross by sea between Atlantic and Pacific at the bottom of the world: the Drake Passage (that great open stretch of ocean to Antartica), the Strait of Magellan (the convoluted waterway defining Tiera del Fuego, the land of islands to its south), and the Beagle Channel almost to Cape Horn. That is where we find Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world, on the northern shore of the Beagle Channel, the jumping off point for ships destined for Antartica or, as are we, a rounding of Cape Horn and an onward journey through islands and up glacier-headed fjords on our way to Punta Arenas, Chile.
While enjoying long December days in a city closer to the South Pole than to Buenos Aires (a 3 1/2 hour flight away), we also became aware that it is actually a much more temperate climate here than we had expected and closer to that at home than the climate in, for instance, Alaska. Very maritime and a less extreme latitude than up north. We were also incredibly fortunate in being spared the usual excessive rain and cloudiness for which the region is infamous.
Beyond spectacular nature, the only tourist attraction in town is an old and rather notorious prison (why else do utterly remote regions exist?) that supplied forced labor for mining, enabled by the world’s southernmost railway. We did find a good café for coffee and baked goods and lots of shops for outdoor gear and end of the earth mementos.
With a quiet walk in an Argentine National Park, we began our exploration of how nature feels in Patagonia and in Tiera del Fuego before boarding the Chilean vessel that would take us further and further into what remains wilderness, barely touched by man. Fortunately, the two nations reached an amicable resolution to national borders that enabled our smooth journey through this region.
How difficult it is to capture the essence of a city in a short visit, especially a place like Buenos Aires, a city bursting with vitality and a kind of hubris, yet smothered in layers of sophistication, corruption and sorrow. It is a beautiful city and relatively easy to navigate, with quite distinct and vibrant neighborhoods where one can feel safe, if cautiously so.
The Teatro Colón (Columbus Theater) is, for example, one of the world’s great opera houses (ranked by experts as #1 in the world for acoustics for opera), with the current structure opening in 1908. It was built in that 50 year period (1880-1930) when Buenos Aires and Argentina were on top of the world, with a prosperity attracting huge influxes of immigrants, surpassing even the United States. We were fortunate when visiting the theater to be able to slip in to overhear some auditions for principal roles in an upcoming production.
Best known as the home Cathedral of Archbishop Jorge Bergoglio, now Pope Francis, the Catedral Metropolitana (1827) is also the resting place of the great liberator General José de San Martín guarded by three enormous statues representing Argentina, Chile and Peru, reburied here in 1880 from his home in Paris (being a bit of an absentee liberator), along with two other generals and Argentina’s Unknown Soldier. Elsewhere in the Cathedral is a statue of the Virgin of Luján with a memorial to the victims of both the holocaust and the bombings of Jewish sites in the 1990’s. In addition to very large Italian and German immigrant populations, Buenos Aires has always had a very large Jewish community.
Occupying one entire end of the Plaza de Mayo, the city’s most important square, the Casa Rosada (“Pink House”) is the seat of Argentina’s government and the official office of the President. Famously, in the 1940’s and 1950’s it’s from this balcony that Juan and Evita Perón addressed the nation.
La Recoleta, the city’s premier cemetery (on a par with its famous counterparts in New Orleans and Paris) is the eternal home of many illustrious characters, many who died too young, but none still inspire a respectful queue of admirers like the immortal Evita Perón. And, yes, the country is still divided almost equally between Perónists and rightists, with a recently elected libertarian economist President Milei making strides in stifling absurd levels of inflation, albeit with draconian measures.
And then there are the neighborhoods, like the colorful La Boca,
enjoying ice cream in a galleria or the alfajores bought in the shop just above,
as well as walking the public spaces,
and wondering why Argentinians are so obsessed with fútbal (how many times were we reminded of the triumph of their World Cup win?), even more than with the tango born along the docks of this proud city, as it struggles to overcome the trauma of the brutal dictatorship with the thousands of “disappeared” whose mothers were a constant presence at the Plaza de Mayo and those years upon years of devastating inflation. It’s easy to feel the allure of Buenos Aires.
for a deep down south Halloween: haunted houses, escape rooms,
checking out the replica of the space shuttle Independence mounted on the original NASA 905 Shuttle Carrier Aircraft at Houston’s Johnson Space Center (while in the neighborhood?),
and, of course, ’gators.
We successfully resolved the matter of a seance going seriously awry in Houston. 13th Gate in Baton Rouge was also a worthy destination for its haunted house and a most challenging escape room.
Then on to the woefully unvisited Capitol Park Museum in Baton Rouge. A (in all seriousness) fantastic place to absorb what it is to be Louisiana. Everything from the obligatory pre-history to the founding narrative, slavery’s central role, food (we’re talking Creole here), music (complete with lots of very well done listening stations), and a substantial area deservedly devoted to one Huey P. Long, the larger-than-life insanely corrupt populist Governor and U.S. Senator, cut down by assassination right there in the Capitol .
It was, of course, Huey who built the Capitol (tallest in the USA, mind you) . . .
. . . and he’s buried out front. Robert Penn Warren’s All the King’s Men, inspired by Huey Long is a great read and is, shall we say, very closely inspired by the man’s life (to get the flavor of how it was).
The Governor also built the Old Governor’s Mansion, annoying the legislature by creating the need for one by simply tearing down the existing Governor’s Mansion (leading to one of the votes on impeachment). The current Mansion is air conditioned, so the “Old” one built by Huey is now a museum and a place to hold weddings (sufficiently confused?). That’s his office, above. He was admitted to the bar, overcoming a lack of any degree whatsoever, even the one from High School. Huey was not one for formalities.
Dynastic ambitions fulfilled, Huey’s son Earl was elected Governor 3 times despite a brief institutionalization, alternating terms with . . .
You Are My Sunshine Governor Jimmie Davis, whose mother-in-law made him that quilt on the bed from a bunch of once-fashionable silk neckties.
Appeals are posted in the bathrooms of the now-a-museum asking the enterprising public to return missing items, such as the purple toilet and tub (to match the orphaned sink).
The Old Capitol is also now a museum (with the preponderance of space devoted to Huey P. Long) and venue. The gothic style is quite beautiful, if a bit more plain than the current edifice.
A visit to the Deep South isn’t complete without stopping by a Plantation, in our case one right in Baton Rouge- Magnolia Mound, dating from the beginning of the 19th century. We don’t know why “Mound,” but Louisiana has many, many Native American mounds, most close by the Mississippi but extending well up into Canada.
And, how can you go to Louisiana and not into the gritty heart of the beast, aka New Orleans? It had been seven years, providing a chance for a different perspective (but, without giving up an evening of music along Frenchmen Street).
(Yes, it was a bigger venue on Canal Street for the Tedeschi Trucks Band and no, we hadn’t been in a Tiki Bar in a very long time, if then.)
We paid a visit to the Hermann-Grima House Museum on St. Louis Street in the French Quarter (built in 1831 and complete with a three story slave quarters, there on your left, under the watchful eye of the house) on a Monday morning first thing, the morning of our flight home, a tour billed with an urban slavery theme and one of our better choices. We all need an occasional regrounding in American history and what better place than the Spanish-French-American city that, controlling access to the Mississippi River, not only was the key to internal commerce all the way up to Ohio, but was the very epicenter of the unbelievably cruel trade in innocent human beings, as well as a thriving, freewheeling experiment in the fusion of cultures, giving us Mardi Gras, voodoo, blues, jazz, funk and amazing food (you gotta love that shrimp and grits), all in a state that still leads the nation in the percentage of its population who are not free, i.e. incarcerated (one out of every ten people).
But, enough with all that. Let’s have another beignet in Jackson Square, then be gone, making good our escape.
We decided to go to Woodstock because we’d never been there and it seemed like a nice little town in a state we knew to be beautiful, enough of a reason to drive out for a long weekend.
On our way into town, we stopped by Quechee Gorge and hiked from the visitor center by the road down into the gorge where people go to enjoy a swim in the Ottauquechee River (despite it taking quite a bit of effort to get there – and back), as well as over the road and along a forested path to take a look at the dam all hooked up to generate electricity.
We also stopped by Simon Pearce in Quechee to browse the glassware and see the glassblowing hot shop downstairs, although most of the workers had just gone on break. We’d seen glassblowing before, but not glass being poured into small individual molds with the care even that operation takes.
It’s easy to forget while enjoying the lush forests of New England that the land had been almost entirely clear cut in the early 19th century in the service of sheep. That’s why all those lovely stone walls meander through woods and mountains in what now seem the most unlikely places.
Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historical Park was created to tell the story of the conservation movement and land stewardship through the history of the three families who lived in the house over time.
It’s a beautiful house. The woodwork is exquisite, the artwork quite nice. But, it’s the stories of those who lived there that were so well told by the ranger. George Perkins Marsh (1801-1882) grew up here loving and paying close attention to nature. After a few terms in Congress, Marsh served as a diplomat and was struck in his travels that humans had “brought the earth to a desolation almost as complete as that of the moon.” His Man and Nature (1864) was hugely influential and became a founding text of the conservation and environmental movement, arguing as it did for responsible stewardship of the land. Another Vermont native, Frederick Billings (1823-1890) purchased the Marsh property in 1869 and, appalled by the silted rivers and other devastation caused by the sheep industry, used his fortune accumulated as a San Francisco lawyer during the gold rush to convert the land to dairy cattle and rebuild the forests with scientific management. His wife and daughters continued his work after his death and into the next generation until his granddaughter Mary French married Laurence Rockefeller (whose family is justifiably admired for their support of conservation) in 1934. The Rockefellers then gifted the property as a National Park.
We have no idea why the pond (largely manmade) on the top of a ridge above the house and reached by 19th century carriage roads is called The Pogue. Current usage is derogatory, but the word’s origin is Irish for “kiss.” It’s a nice little destination and likely the reason it’s there, just under 2 miles from the house.
We’ve hiked networks of carriage roads and seen plenty of horse troughs, but none quite like this beauty situated at an intersection and fed from The Pogue.
Staying, as we were, in the heart of downtown Woodstock just a very short walk from The Green, we were also a short walk from Faulkner Park and the 19th century switchback trail up to the south peak of Mount Tom, making it a much less strenuous hike than straight up the mountain and popular with camp counselors taking young campers for a hike.
Always up for a detour into marginally obscure history, we headed out to Plymouth or Plymouth Notch, a tiny agricultural settlement not far from Woodstock where (born on the 4th of July) Calvin Coolidge (1872-1933) was born and raised, sworn in as President by his father (a Justice of the Peace) when Warren Harding shocked the nation by dying, and established his summer White House in the little dance hall above the general store. We arrived at the crossroads just as a state park ranger was beginning a tour, so we hopped in.
One of the most striking things about the Coolidge birthplace is that everything in the house(s) and outbuildings is from his time and are the actually furnishings, not antiques from that era brought in to provide an approximation of the time. So, above, is the bed in which Coolidge was born, in the room where he was born, covered with the quilt his grandmother had made. Honestly, it brought some shivers of recognition to Jim, reminding him of his grandparents and “home” in Central PA.
Then there’s the yoke believed to have been carved by a young Calvin for himself to help in carrying heavy buckets of maple sap. It was a different era, shall we say.
Coolidge’s father even, for a time, was a rural delivery mail carrier bridging, as did Jim’s grandfather, the era of horseback and horse-drawn delivery and the automobile.
More than adequately steeped in nostalgia, we sought out another maple creemee (https://www.woodstockscoops.com/copy-of-maple-creemee) and headed home to Cape Cod.
These mountains got their start one billion years ago in a slam of tectonic plates pushing as high as the Rockies then wearing down these last 250 million years to become sand on ocean beaches. It’s easy to forget how massive and formidable a barrier the Appalachian Mountains presented to 18th century settlers who pushed west with or without the apparent acquiescence of Native Americans. From northern Newfoundland all the way to Alabama, they were the definition of “frontier” and retain some of that feeling, though more recently acquiring some cachet and kindling some pride in those of us who grew up among them.
We began our journey by heading west from Cape Cod through Massachusetts and New York where we stopped for a hike (a primary purpose of our trip) and stumbled on a number of those stone walls you find everywhere in mountainous New England that cleared the fields and demarcated the clear cut land, primarily for sheep.
We stopped on our way south at Winchester VA to see the Museum of the Shenandoah Mountains with its beautiful gardens and a surprising collection of very large doll houses (with little ladders to help you view them) put together by one of the men who created and lived on the estate.
And then Roanoke VA to visit the O. Winston Link Museum featuring his photographs of . . . steam engines and trains. (Please forgive the photo of a photo.) Link was a master of lighting and composition at the very end of the steam age. We could also indulge Jim’s fascination with the link to his grandfather who sat in one of those towers along the tracks and used telegraphy to communicate the whereabouts of trains.
Making our way down to southern Virginia, we stopped by the Blue Ridge Music Center in Galax, where there are midday informal concerts and demonstrations of either old time music or bluegrass (being fancier concert music, rather than for dancing). The Fisher Peak Timber Rattlers played old time music and the fiddler just grew up learning to hold the fiddle that way. Inside is a museum of American music and instruments.
Outside, the Park Service maintains some beautiful trails and a large amphitheater where you can catch big name bluegrass and country performers.
The Blue Ridge Parkway – linking Shenandoah National Park in Virginia with the Great Smoky Mountains National Park- really is a remarkable road weaving through the mountains at a comparatively leisurely 45 mph (if that) and benefiting from the careful attention of teams of landscape architects who laid a route maximizing the wow factor of what was already there, augmented by plantings heavy on rhododendrons that have been naturalizing since 1935. There are also abundant well marked hiking trails and lonely ranger outposts along the way to make sure you get a workout or the help you need, if you want.
The family of Moses Cone (whose business at one time was the world’s largest manufacturer of denim) donated his 3800 acre mountain retreat and mansion with 25 miles of carriage roads to the Park Service in 1950. Spoiler alert: the rather-grand-for-the-mountains house is only the second largest in these parts. Too bad we forgot to bring our horses.
All along the Parkway there are hikes to waterfalls and, during our travels, fog and rain, and lots of fog.
Or, simply steep hikes to a fogged in view.
Or, sitting in the car fogged in views.
Then there was Biltmore. The Mansion. The Estate. Outside of present day Asheville, NC (nice city with a very active and creative art scene).
Where the Vanderbilts owned those mountains, too.
The Gardens.
The House. Totally, literally, crazy. Beautiful, gorgeous, all those words (of course), but completely crazy and a compelling indictment of wealth. That swimming pool was built before the modern era of chlorine and filtering systems and, so, was drained and scrubbed down after every use. We might admire the Family for opening up the house and grounds for (quite expensive) tours, but the sheer existence of the place is, again, simply crazy – all the more so because the builder, the founder, of Biltmore was not the man who created the wealth (Cornelius), but his grandson George whose sole occupation was spending it. Still, clearly worth a visit.
These are the Smoky Mountains and this The Great Smoky Mountains National Park, not far from Asheville and at the southernmost end of the Blue Ridge Parkway where it leaves you by the town of Cherokee and the Qualla Reservation of the Cherokee Nation.
Elk had become extinct in the East. The Park Service transferred elk from Yellowstone and, as you’ll notice in the photo above, outfit every elk in the park with a GPS monitoring collar to keep track of how they’re doing.
We’d never seen such an abundance of waterfalls.
Up a small road deep in the park is a settlement of summer homes built by people from Knoxville who brought along their help (see lower right). The Park Service intended to tear them down, but were foiled by someone filing for historical protection. So, they will stand preserved with volunteers telling the story of children left to play in the streams and summers at ease.
We stayed on both sides of the park, in Cherokee in NC and in Townsend in Tennessee (wisely avoiding Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge). We chose Townsend to be as close as we could get to Cades Cove, the go to place for spotting black bears. There’s a one-way narrow single lane loop road circling the cove after a considerable drive in with a stream of cars patiently scanning the fields and woods for deer, elk and bears. A cluster of cars parked haphazardly on the side means someone has seen something and people get out and share a scope or a look through a telephoto lens. And then you might get lucky, as we did, with our strategy of heading over there after dinner and in early morning.
Also, there were crows. But, we felt fortunate to be in the park when we were – in May – not wanting to imagine how crowded it must be in the peak of the season when we passed popular trailheads overflowing with cars parked up and down the road after the parking areas quickly filled if you hadn’t arrived in early morning.
Taking advantage of our latitude, we headed further south to visit an arts and crafts school in Brasstown (in other words, the middle of nowhere) that dates way back and has a curriculum for visiting adults that ranges from banjo picking to blacksmithing. It was fun and the quality of work was impressive. We later figured out that there are schools like this all over the country, with a lot of them in New England.
BY JOYCE KILMER
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
[Joyce Kilmer, “Trees” from Poetry 2, no. 5 (August 1915): 153.]
Heading even further south near to the Georgia border we managed to find the very remote Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest (named for the soldier/author of Trees and one of those poets killed in action in the trenches of WWI), one of the very few surviving old growth forests in America. We had begun to doubt Google Maps (having been led to take some highly questionable routes), but the Forest Service website advised they were the only ones to trust. The two ladies on a smoke break who confirmed directions for us wary travelers assured us we were welcome even with our northern license plate and hoped we’d stay a while.
After visiting friends in Greenville SC and family around Harrisburg (where we stocked up on birch beer), we continued our return north and east.
As our final stop before home on Cape Cod, we stopped in New Paltz, NY to take a look at a 17th century Huguenot village in honor of Amanda’s Huguenot heritage and the Hudson River from the vantage point of an old railroad bridge repurposed as an actually very nice walking and biking trail the width of the river (and well beyond).
